


Ex Astris, Scientia

by ofstardustandbruises



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, star trek/enterprise au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4051024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofstardustandbruises/pseuds/ofstardustandbruises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor encounter courtship differences between a Vulcan female and a Klingon male, much to the frustration of the other. CURRENTLY ABANDONED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a silly little oneshot I've had floating around in my mind. Not meant to be anything serious, but only meant for fun—hope you all enjoyed it!

The blood trickling down Sandor’s thigh reminded him that Dr. T’Saan Sansa Stark would not be happy seeing him in the sick bay for the fourth time in three days. He didn’t understand how any woman, half-Vulcan or not, wouldn’t understand that it just proves he’s strong and brave. Sure, he is injured a lot, but that's just because he’s training a lot of other warriors to fight like him, and he’s one of the best. Besides, this showed honor. And he particularly wanted to see her. He tapped his comm, and hearing the little trill, he spoke loud and clear over the sounds of a battle being waged around him.

“Emergency transport to sick bay; one to beam up.”

The last thing he saw before Sansa’s emotionless face came before his was the sight of the Cardassians retreating.

He woke up and groaned. He ached all over, probably due to the multiple wounds he sustained over the past few days. Sansa’s hair flashed by before it stopped at his bedside, her cold human eyes staring down at him under her tilted eyebrows.

“You’re awake,” she started to scan him with her tricorder, her frown deepening.

“Yes, so I’ve noted. Did we win?” Those eyes snapped back up to his, narrowing slightly with a glint in them—perhaps the only time he’s been able to get any sort of emotion out of her. He’s only seen her smile once, little more than an upturn of the corners of her mouth, and that was when someone else told her that he hadn’t been to the sick bay in over a week.

“We did. You’re free to go. I had better not see you for at least twelve days, as you’ll be on bed rest and minimal duty until I deem your leg fit for action. That means no away missions, no training, no Klingon rituals that involve physically harming yourself. I don’t want to see you until I tell you to come to me for evaluations. Understood, Lieutenant Commander?”

“So you’re saying I can’t do anything? Absolutely nothing, simply because you don’t want to see me?” he roared. He was a Klingon warrior, fit for anything that could happen. “You can’t just do that.”

“Yes I can do that, Lieutenant Commander Toral Sandor Clegane. It is because I am a doctor, put in place to make people better, and currently _I can’t seem to keep you off this damn sick bay, so I highly advise you to do as I say or by all the Vulcan gods I will keep you here._ ” She screamed at him, the attention of every patient and doctor turned towards the two of them. Her pointed ears and cheeks were tinged a deep green, making her seem grossly sick.

He was almost terrified by this. Sansa never did this sort of thing. Really, she was no better than an empty shell of an emotionless being. And here she had yelled at him like he was a pesky sibling. Or a Klingon lover...

In other words, he was strangely aroused. He looked at her a little more closely. She was pretty, everyone knew that. Her Vulcan features only highlighted the best parts about her: those eyes and the hair, never actually seen on his Klingon homeworld. Her face was unmarred with scars like his, but she didn’t have the attractive forehead ridges. He would like to touch her pointed ears though. He wondered what she’d do if he did.

Sandor raised his hand to her ears, and just barely passed over the tip before a hard crack sounded across his face. He tasted blood in his mouth, and he grinned. She may have some Klingon in her after all.

“How dare you presume to touch my ears. Get out. Get out of my sick bay.” He clamored out of the bed, noticing the Betazoid Counselor Margaery Tyrell come into the sick bay, probably called after someone heard the screaming match inside.

“Oh, hello, Sandor!” Margaery stopped him just before he reached the door. “And how are you doing? I hope you’ll be healing well.”

He smirked. “Thanks to Dr. Stark’s wonderful bedside manner, I might be back sooner rather than later.” A scalpel flew past his eyes and throbbed in the wall behind him. His head whipped towards Sansa. She was picking up more things; heavy, dangerous things. Her face was a deep green, like she was about to throw up everywhere. A reflex hammer flew over his head as he ducked, becoming more enamored with Sansa the more she yelled and threw things.

“Go away, Sandor Clegane! I don’t want to see your stupid face ever again, you disgusting oaf!” As he ducked out of the sick bay, he thought, _Yes, this was how a Klingon mate acted_. He would woo Sansa and earn her love and respect. There was honor in this, he was sure.

* * *

Sansa just couldn’t do anything anymore. Her hormone levels were everywhere, emotions free to see, and now she just slapped and threw medical equipment at the strongest crewmember on the _Enterprise_. She was sobbing on the bed of her quarters, ignoring the sound of Margaery requesting entry. How could she go on like this? The ship was nowhere near Vulcan, and her mother and father had been asking when she was ever going to get a mate. It was just so _embarrassing_. Sansa thought her mother would be more understanding, seeing as she was human, but no. It was almost like her mother valued Vulcan traditions more than human! She screamed into her pillow, missing the sound of Margaery using her override code and entering her private quarters.

“Sansa, what is going _on_? I thought you liked Sandor.” Margaery’s last comment didn’t help Sansa, as the redheaded Vulcan sobbed even louder into her pillow.

“I-I-I do, Margie! B-b-but I hit him! That’s not proper. And I let go of my emotions! That’s not _Vulcan_.” Margaery shushed her, soothing Sansa by lightly scratching her back.

“Yes, I know it’s not Vulcan; that’s why I’m asking why you did it. You’re always calm and collected around Sandor. Remember that time there was a boxing ring set up in Engineering? Oh, Bronn looked absolutely dashing that day—he took down so many people. But Sandor, darling! Remember when he took his shirt off? It distracted me completely from that fearsome face, with those scars and especially those hard ridges. Mmm, I’ve never seen so many muscles on anyone, but it looks tasteful on Sandor. I bet you’d like to taste _him_.” Sansa felt herself blush even greener. “And _there’s_ the look you had even you saw him! You looked like you were about to die and go to whatever sort of Vulcan heaven there is. He was so disappointed when he saw you had left at the end. I overheard him asking Brienne where you went, and I’ve never seen him more upset that you didn’t watch his physical prowess. He had no idea you were watching him the entire time, especially those rippling muscles! He’s obviously trying to impress you, Sansa. I bet he’s positively infatuated with you! But tell me, why slap him?”

“It’s too embarrassing, Margie.”

“Tell me. I’m your best friend, T’Saan. You can trust me with any embarrassing detail.”

“It’s...it’s called pon farr. My first one, actually. It’s a time of... _mating_. And neurochemical imbalance resulting in madness,” she sat up, looking her friend in the eyes. “I could die if my pon farr isn’t taken care of.”

Margaery clasped a hand over her open mouth. “Oh no. Ohhhh no. You’re not dying on me. What do we need to do?”

“Well, I only have two of three options: I can intensively meditate for several days, or I can take a mate. My parents are wanting the second option.”

Margaery’s eyes sparkled. “Then take a mate! What’s the harm in it?”

“It’s for life, Margie. I have to mate for life. I’d rather just meditate.”

“Don’t do that!” Margaery grabbed her arm. “We don’t know if it’s as effective, and I don’t want you dying. Besides, you hate meditating. Mate with Sandor! I bet he’ll say yes!”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“And why not?”

“I don’t want him shackled to me. What if we don’t like each other after all? What if he doesn’t even like me at all?”

“Oh, honey. I found this tacked on your door. I guess he just didn’t want to interrupt your cryfest.” She handed Sansa a printed out note.

 

_Your pointed ears are the height of my desires_

_The blue eyes hide mysteries behind them_

_And, my borghel, the way you threw the scalpel makes me think of no other but you..._

  
The note went on and on, praising many things about Sansa, and as Sansa blushed to notice, how these things aroused the Klingon.

“This is...this is…”

“Horrible love poetry?” Margaery suggested.

“ _Yes_. But why? Why give me this?”

“It’s one of the many facets of Klingon courtship. You yelled at him and threw things. He would have known if you really liked him if you bit his face, Sansa. Apparently, the Klingon male presents love poems and ducks a lot,” Margaery turned Sansa’s face towards hers. “Sansa, he wants to mate with you. Don’t die on me, and do whatever freaky Vulcan-Klingon ritual you have to. Be happy for once, or at least do more than that pathetic Vulcan smile. You’re half human, you know.”

So Sansa did smile that human smile she thought she lost. “Tell me exactly what to do.”

* * *

Maybe this wasn’t going as well as he thought it would. Sandor had posted his poems all over the ship, and still he hadn’t heard the mating shriek from Sansa, much less any question why there were love poems in the first place. Did she actually not like him? She hadn’t bitten his face yet. Perhaps this was hopeless! He ignored the fact that it had only been one day since he had started courting her, and that he hadn’t even really talked to her either.

Sandor made his way to the holodeck—fighting would help him think clearer, and if he injured himself again, he would have an excuse to see Sansa, even if she wouldn’t be entirely thrilled by the circumstances. Maybe he should ask Margaery about human or Vulcan courtship. Maybe poems were highly insulting on her Vulcan homeworld!

And then there she was. Standing there, right outside of the holodeck, was Sansa. She was stiff, holding a PADD in her hands, the grimace on her face not escaping Sandor.

“Lieutenant Commander,” she addressed him, her monotone voice barely masking what he thought was her anger underneath.

“Doctor. Why are you here?” Perhaps she would just tell him to get lost. He was ruined.

“You’re trying to court me, right?” Sansa blurted out, and then turned that faint shade of green.

“Yes, I am. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop—”

“Don’t stop!” she shrieked. “You can continue. Your poems may be lacking in any sort of quality, but the sentiment is there.” Sansa turned towards the holodeck, stepping into it. “Come, we’ll talk here.”

Sandor stepped into the room, and he saw it was already modeled after the part of the Klingon homeworld he hailed from, rough hewn and wild like he was. Had she done all this for him?

“Sit, Sandor, we have much to discuss.” Two chairs and a table materialized when Sansa ordered it, so he did, watching as Sansa arranged herself on the chair and placed the PADD between them.

“I feel I must explain myself here. I have enjoyed your company and looks for some time, Sandor, yet I have done nothing as I did not believe you _like liked_ me, to use a Terrarian colloquialism my brothers are fond of using.” Her greenness deepened, and it finally clicked in Sandor that she was blushing. _Oh_. “I do not always reveal my emotions—I try to follow the Vulcan way as much as possible, as part of the _Family, Duty, Honor_ ideal my mother holds. However, human emotions sometimes corrupt that attempt, particularly in my affinity for romance novels.” She cracked what might be considered a smile: the first one he had actually seen from her. “It is increasingly harder and harder to control my emotions, especially now that I am undergoing pon farr.” She whispered the last bit, as if she had just admitted a terrible secret.

“What’s that, exactly?”

“Pon farr,” her voice cracked, “is a time for all Vulcans that occurs approximately every seven years, and is heralded by extreme emotions. Essentially we must choose a mate or undergo intense meditation, the latter of which I do not enjoy. The males can fight to the death, but in any case, if we do not choose a mate or meditate within a week or so, we die. And at my parents’ and Margaery’s insistence, I have decided to take a mate, and if you agree, I would prefer that mate to be you.” Sandor felt his eyes widen. “Of course, if this is unsatisfactory to you, I will undergo meditation. Do you accept my request to be your mate?”

Sandor couldn’t believe it. Did his poems actually work, in a sense? At least she finally knew that he had been longing for her. He should have courted her sooner—he would have been able to spend more time with Sansa. He looked up at her, and saw that she was waiting for a response.

“I accept it, but damn it, borghel, you chirp too much.” Her face fell, and internally he berated himself. He shouldn’t have criticized her, not when he was getting what he had wished for these past three years.

“Forgive me, but I do not know what a borghel is. I hope you will excuse my ignorance on Klingon culture and words, but I only just researched courtship differences.”

“It is a type of bird, small, but its eggs are tasty,” he smirked. “You fly around sick bay like the chirper.”

“Oh, I see. A pet name. You shall be my ron-tu, then. It is similar to the Terrarian dog; you have a habit of following me, I’ve noticed. Agreed?” He nodded, slightly unnerved by the diplomatic way she was organizing their relationship. Where was the fighting and passion? “Good. Then, ron-tu, I believe we can move on with the procedures that our respective cultures dictate for courtship. I realize that the Klingon mating ritual is not usually carried out when mating occurs with a member of a different race, but I have taken the liberty of what I believe to be the most important parts and compiled them in a list on this PADD. It should be satisfactory. Also, I saw that the Klingons also mate for life. I hope I am a good choice. Here.” Sansa handed the PADD to him.

 _1._ Sandor _reads two poems (romantically) and Sansa throws things (violently)_  
_2\. Sansa accepts Sandor’s suit of courtship/mating (respectfully)_  
_3\. Each participant sniffs the other’s right hand (cautiously)_  
_4\. Sansa initiates an intimate mind meld with Sandor (dutifully)_  
_5\. The two parties will request family quarters near sick bay (immediately)_  
_6\. The two parties will avoid the morbid outcome of ignored pon farr (sexily)_

 

Sandor was dumbfounded. Was this how Sansa would choose to live with him? Under terms and conditions that had hardly any sense of physical or emotional connection, it wouldn’t really be living with Sansa as a mate at all.

“Where’s the blood? The ritual fighting? Where is the _feeling_?” Her eyes went dark. “Don’t tell me you feel nothing for me; I know it’s a lie. And don’t tell me you feel nothing at all.”

“I decided that since you are my patient and have recently been injured that it would not be prudent to engage in such activities as those—”

“I think that you just don’t respect the Klingon ways—”

“I do, I just don’t think it’s sanitary or necessary in your state to go through this—”

“What, you’re scared of a little blood, is that it?”

“No, I’m not!” She jumped up from her seat and towered over him, teeth bared and furious. “I don’t want to draw blood, not only because I am a _doctor_ , but because I don’t like seeing you hurt! I don’t like seeing you in my sick bay! I don’t like hearing you’re going on an away mission, because I know you’re going to come back injured. And sometimes I think you get those injuries just to spite me! I’m scared out of my mind every time you beam down to the surface of whatever godforsaken planet we’re charting, because what if one time I’m wrong about you coming back injured and this time you come back dead? I won’t even be able to react because I’m Vulcan and set in my ways, and currently everyone but Margaery thinks I hate you, but I don’t, I really _don’t_. I won’t be able to mourn properly because to everyone else, you meant nothing to me,” she was sobbing now, and had collapsed in Sandor’s lap, “and I meant nothing to you.”

He rocked her back and forth in his arms, scratching her back the way he knew she liked it, quietly shushing her as he thought about what she just said.

“Perhaps it is not really necessary to draw blood,” he laughed softly, and he felt Sansa’s hum of amusement against his chest through her erratic tears. He picked up the abandoned PADD on the table. “I know I’m not good at poetry, and I think I’ll skip that step. But would you like to be my mate, Dr. T’Saan Sansa Stark?” He felt her nod against his chest. “Good, then that step is fulfilled.” He took her right hand and sniffed it, and he raised his own right hand to her nose. He wasn’t sure if she was sniffing his hand or sniffing back snot, but in this case, it didn’t really matter anyway.

She looked up at him, blue eyes watering still. He wiped away her tears with his hand and kissed her angled nose, nipping it a little. She jumped a bit in his lap, but there was a small smile anyway. She held up her right hand to his face, and he nodded, slightly apprehensive about this step.

“I promise this will not hurt physically. I cannot guarantee emotionally,” she sniffed, leaning close to his face, and finally she touched her hand to his burned cheek.

Many things flashed before his eyes: images of Sansa as a little girl, playing with her siblings; pictures of when she graduated Starfleet Medical and got her assignment on the _Enterprise_ ; and so many thoughts of him, mostly battered and bruised on the operating table, and he thought he felt all of Sansa’s thoughts at those moments. There was one where he was nearly dead, and the image got blurry as if tears were blocking his view. It wasn’t even an injury from when he was on a mission. It was one he got on purpose in order to impress her, as he had only been in the sick bay for another injury days before. Up until this point, Sandor had no idea how this could have harmed Sansa.

Her tiny hand pulled away from his face, and he stared up at her. How difficult must it be to repress all her emotions, and so many about him? He didn’t even deserve her worrying over him, and yet she did it anyway, regardless of all the torments he put her through. He took the hand she touched him with and kissed it, kissed her arm all the way up to her neck and onto her lips.

“I am sorry, Sansa, truly I am—”

He was cut off by Sansa biting his face, playfully, yet fiercely. He grinned. Sansa grinned back and shrieked as she tackled him to the ground, overcome by plak tow. Pon farr would come to an end.

* * *

Sansa had been living with Sandor for almost 6 months now, and so far he had been in sick bay for infrequent minimal injuries and actually listened to her when she told him to rest. They were currently mock battling with two of Sandor’s bat’leths, Sansa expressing a “vague interest” in the weapon.

“My parents are visiting on an ambassadorial trip to Ferenginar. They’re going to see Petyr Baelish, but they want us to come down to Vulcan and meet you in their house,” she mumbled as she blocked his attack, pleased that her parents had accepted her choice in a mate, and hopefully her choice in a future husband.

“This is the house you showed me on the holodeck, correct? The house that you grew up in?” he asked, aiming his weapon at her knees.

“Yes, and all my family members will be there too. Bran will expect you to know the Vulcan salute.” She stepped close to him, stopping his attack with her bat’leth and rested her hand on his chest, stilling him. She kissed his cheek, taking her hand from his chest and ran it over his ridges, feeling him shudder in anticipation beneath her.

“Now tell me how that salute goes again, borghel,” Sandor said as he took his hand and ran it over the tips of her ears. Oh, how she loved him.

“Hold your hand like this, ron-tu,” Sansa replied, taking his hand from her ears and positioning the fingers, marveling at how big his hands were, “and say this: ‘Live long and prosper.’”

Sandor held his fingers there, looking at her straight in the eyes, “Live long and prosper, T’Saan.”

Sansa put up her own hand, a mirror image of her mate, and truly smiled as she replied, “Peace and long life, Toral.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor noticed his mate and fiancée fidgeting almost imperceptibly beside him as he readied the transporter for beaming down to the Vulcan planet surface. He took her hand as he input the coordinates and squeezed it a little, marvelling at how tiny it was. Still, his comfort did nothing to assure Sansa.

“What are you so nervous about, borghel?”

“I don’t like transporters,” she muttered, a grimace on her face. “Why can’t we just take a shuttle down to the surface?”

Sandor looked down at the Vulcan, and ran his thumb over the worried creases in her forehead. “Isn’t it highly illogical to worry about something like a transporter accident? They hardly ever happen—and I’m sure you can remember that I’ve used the emergency transport thousands of times; I’ve always come back in one piece!” Sansa’s brow furrowed even more.

“You call being sliced and diced on planet surfaces and then bleeding on top of my operating table coming back in one piece? Need I remind you that you have nearly died on several occasions? And the transporter took out part of your leg one time! It’s not safe.” Sandor pulled her close to him, and kissed her gently on the lips. He may be a fierce warrior, but he knows how to be gentle to her. He set the transporter timer to thirty seconds, and took Sansa’s other hand with his now free hand.

“Look, it’ll only be a few seconds. I promise nothing will go wrong, okay? Now, let’s go down and see your family. They’ve been waiting long enough to see you, come.” He led her to the platform, and picked up the luggage they’ve packed for the week-long excursion on Vulcan. Sandor turned to Sansa, frowning slightly at her red face—he hoped she wouldn’t get sick. He blinked, and suddenly he was on Vulcan.

The desert-like atmosphere was stifling. Everything was shrouded in pale brownish-tan colors, including the five Vulcans and one human standing before him. He saw Sansa start to rush towards them, and then slow down immediately, raising her hand in the Vulcan salute, and faintly heard her say, “Live long and prosper.” A chorus of “Peace and long life” echoed around. Sandor felt his legs move forward, and distantly realized that he too was saying “Live long and prosper.” He glanced over at Sansa, and saw a faint look of pride on her face.

Sansa’s mother, Catelyn, he remembered, hugged him, which he hadn’t really expected to happen, but it felt nice. He hadn’t really had a maternal hug since he last saw his mother, which was a very, very long time ago. Catelyn kissed both his cheeks, murmuring a _we are so happy to have you here, even if the more Vulcan members of my family don’t show it_ and then suddenly he was face to face with Sansa’s father. He was tall, shorter than Sandor, but his strict face and perfect posture made Sandor feel much smaller.

“Yl’el, Toral. BIpIv’a’?” _Welcome, Toral. Are you healthy?_

Sandor was surprised to hear Klingon come out of the Vulcan’s mouth. “JIplv. BIplv’a’.” _I am healthy. Are you healthy?_

“Yes, I am operating within sufficient parameters,” Ned said, gesturing towards his home. “Come. I welcome you to my home. You and my daughter will be staying in Sansa’s old room. And do not be afraid of my children’s sehlats—they are quite safe when they are fed on time.” Almost as if on cue, a giant fanged beast hurled itself at Sansa, knocking her to the ground and licking her face. Sansa giggled out a _hello, Lady!_ and Sandor stopped and openly stared at her.

He had never heard Sansa _giggle_. The closest sound he had to a laugh from her was a nose exhale or a sound of approval. This was...weird. His mate stared up at him, one eyebrow raised in question. He shook his head, letting her know he’d tell her later.

The inside of her home was spacious, but plain. A few pictures adorned the walls—likely put up by Catelyn. He was surprised at the number of weapons that were displayed. He did not take these Vulcans to be any type of warriors at all. Sansa wrapped her arms around his, and whispered in his ear.

“My brothers—save for Bran—and my sister have chosen more of a human path. They like to fight with mostly Vulcan weapons. I know they will enjoy you showing them how to use the bat’leth, but you might want to show Arya how to use the mek’leth. Come, let me show you my room,” she said as she led him up the stairs and down a long corridor, the sehlat following. “I know Klingons don’t like sharing the information, but maybe tell Bran about the period of ridgeless Klingons? I know it’s embarrassing for your species, but he’s quiet and would never tell anyone.” She stopped outside a nondescript room and opened it.

The interior was pink. It was so _illogical_. Sandor could not help the laugh that escaped him, but it turned out he knew so little about Sansa. She always called herself a Vulcan, but now that she was actually on the planet, she was so incredibly unlike the Sansa on the _Enterprise_. He turned her toward him, noticing her pouting, and gave her a hungry kiss.

“I like this side of you, Sansa. I wish I could see more of it in our quarters,” he whispered suggestively.

“In our quarters, maybe. While we are here,” she said, tapping his ridges with her fingers, “we will do nothing. You get loud.”

“I do not! You’re the one who’s excitable!”

She huffed, sticking her tongue out at him. He grinned, kissing her again, muffling the squeak she made when he played with the tip of her ear.

* * *

The meals were...edible, but he would hesitate at calling it food. There was no meat to be found anywhere. He tried to enjoy the foods, hesitant at trying Sansa’s favorite plomeek soup. He had to admit that tasted good, but only because Sansa had made it specifically for him. The conversation was stilted; only Sansa’s more human dispositioned siblings seemed interested in his battles, the three of them often ignoring how Sansa had felt when he was transported to sick bay. Bran and Catelyn seemed particularly interested in his life on Qo’noS, asking about the political structure (Bran) and marriage ceremonies (Catelyn). A lot of questions were raised about marriage ceremonies, specifically whether or not Sandor and Sansa would do a Vulcan-Klingon fusion wedding. Sansa interjected before Sandor could say that they hadn’t really thought of the specific ceremony because they were both busy with their jobs on the _Enterprise_.

“We’re doing a Klingon ceremony, a Vulcan ceremony, and a Terrarian ceremony. Separately. In that order.” She did not speak for the rest of the dinner.

Later that night, the two of them were in Sansa’s old bed, his arm wrapped around Sansa. She was curled into his body, running her fingers over scars she wasn’t able to heal.

“So what’s this about three separate marriage ceremonies?”

She looked up at him, a ghost of a frown gracing her lips. “I hope you are not displeased by my interruption earlier. I was just thinking that with our courtship experience, it was best not to mix what appeared to be the most important parts of each ceremony and be done with it,” she smiled now, and kissed his jawline. “Besides, what girl doesn’t want to have three weddings?”

“Why a Klingon wedding first, though? Why not a Vulcan one, since we’re already here?” Sansa gasped and sat up immediately, her head bashing into his jaw. He moaned and she whimpered, leaning over him to pull out her tricorder, running it over his jaw and her head before pronouncing them both in pain but functioning.

“Well, I did not want to presume for us to get married right away, and besides, your mother might want to give her approval on her son’s mate before she met her son’s wife. We will be passing by Qo’noS in a few months, and I thought it would give us both time to adjust to the idea of being married.”

“We practically are, Sansa. We live together, we’re already engaged, we’re mates. I don’t see anything stopping us from getting married tomorrow, and I can tell you my mother would not really care if we came home married for ten years and seven babies to take care of. She’d love you just the same—” Sansa thrust her finger against his mouth, and he opened his mouth to playfully bite it.

“ _Seven babies_? How long have you been thinking about that, Sandor? Although Klingon pregnancies are shorter than Vulcan-human ones, the babies are huge. And I’m tiny.” She was terrified.

He sighed, “It was just the first number I came up with, borghel. My mother wouldn’t want us to put off happiness because of her. She’d have wanted us to get married on the day we became mates, knowing her. If you want to get married tomorrow, or in the next fifteen years, I will wait,” he looked at her long and hard. “You make the decisions. I will follow you wherever you want to take the two of us. I am your ron-tu, remember that.”

She smirked mischievously and kissed up and down his ridges before making her way to his ear and whispering in it.

“I’ll tell my mother to bring out her wedding dress tomorrow,” she said, nipping his ear. “Perhaps there is something about Vulcan that brings out the illogical human in me.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Well, you’re completely disregarding essentially all tradition with this marriage, but I suppose we can blame it on the fact that you’re half human and Sandor’s a Klingon,” Catelyn stated as she altered Sansa’s dress. Sansa had told her mother about the marriage first thing the morning after her discussion with Sandor, and while her mother was excited that her daughter was getting married, there was still the fact that most of the traditions had been put aside in order for the two Federation members to leave Vulcan.

“At least I’m not getting married in full ceremony to Joffrey. An arranged marriage to a Cardassian, Mother? What were you and Father thinking?” Sansa griped, sucking in her breath as Catelyn pulled back the laces of the dress.

“We were _thinking_ that it would be a good way to negotiate peace between the United Federation of Planets and the Cardassian Union, but…” Catelyn trailed off, remembering how undiplomatically the Cardassian Lannisters had refused.

“Yes, I know,” Sansa grimaced, trying to ignore how painful this dress was and working out what sort of medicines would dull the pain during the ceremony. “Oh, Arya! Does Sandor know about the gong? And who’s going to be the bell ringer—are we going to hire one?” Arya had only just walked into the room before Sansa started spouting questions at her, almost all to do with Sandor.

“Yes, he knows he has to hit the gong to call the wedding party to order. He’s been practicing his swings all morning with his bat’leth. He’s really not what I expected, Sansa,” Arya stated as she gathered up Sansa’s hair and started brushing it. “Honestly, I think you did very well with him, even if he is a Klingon. I bet the sex is amazing, huh? Tell me all about it—”

“Or don’t! That’s fine, too,” Catelyn interrupted, taking the brush from Arya and arranging Sansa’s hair. “Now, remember, we’re mixing in a few different traditions into this ceremony. Sandor will ring the gong, everyone will congregate. Someone will ring the bells while you two telepathically bond and undergo koon-ut-kal-if-fee, preferably without the kal-if-fee. There’s no other man you’re promised to, correct?” Sansa nodded. “Good, I don’t want a repeat of Petyr attempting to fight your father for me.”

Catelyn and Arya worked on Sansa’s hair in silence as Sansa closed her eyes and imagined what Sandor would look like. Would he wear his uniform? She hoped not. She hoped he would wear traditional Vulcan robes, even though it wouldn’t look right on him at all. Maybe he’d put the hood up to cover his scars. Maybe he’d keep them down, finally realized she loved his face for how it looked and because it was his. It should be black with a hint of yellow, even if it seemed too somber for a wedding. He just wouldn’t look good in all yellow. Sansa knew the dress she was wearing wasn’t festive either. A light grey with ribbons of blue on the dress and in her hair as well. She liked the way some of the fabric was wrapped around her neck, leaving some of her chest visible, but still modest. She kept running her fingertips over the edges, ignoring the slaps on the hands that her mother and sister gave her. She felt the veil settle on top of her head, the heaviness of the pins keeping it in place as it hung down her back.

It felt like no time and yet eons passed before she heard the gong and the automatic movement from her spot to next to Sandor was almost too quick. He wore black robes, hood pulled up to cover his face, yet she noticed with some amusement that someone had stuck a yellow flower in one of the folds of his robes. The only witnesses were her family, all assembled around the couple, with Ned as the priest to bind them together in the Vulcan way.

“Hello, ron-tu. You look very handsome in those robes,” Sansa said under her breath as her father started talking about how this ceremony was not traditional in any sense, and that his daughter should stay longer on Vulcan because that was _tradition_.

“Hi, borghel. You look beautiful,” Sandor replied as he grinned, his slightly pointed teeth glinting in the light of the Vulcan sun. “So, are you going to take my last name today?”

“No...according to the Vulcan way, I don’t even technically have a last name. Stark is just the family human name. Suhur is my father’s Vulcan name, and chose Ned Stark when he decided to be an ambassador so that it was more _normal_ ,” Sansa frowned. “Maybe in our Klingon or Terrarian wedding?”

“I’d like that—” Sandor was interrupted by Ned asking the two of them to exchange their silent vows through touch telepathy, signalling to Rickon to start softly playing the bells. Sansa reached up to remove Sandor’s hood, watching it gracefully fall onto his back before she stepped up to him and touched her hand to his face.

She shared her mind first, sending him pictures of their future life, of away missions and quiet nights, of travelling the stars and navigating a battlefield, of tiny children running around their room and growing old. Not all of the images were nice or pretty to look at, but it was a life of theirs together. In every single one, there were stars in their eyes, and those stars weren’t exactly in space. She sent images of him fighting: powerful and dangerous, but sometimes gentle, like the way he was with her. Oh, how she loved him.

She could see his images too. They had been practicing their telepathy on the ship, and while he was getting better, his messages were still faint. She saw through the blurriness that he wanted the same life with her, just with slightly more procreating. Sansa felt her blush grow more and more as time went on with Sandor’s telepathic message, feeling as though her whole face was a deep green.

She heard her father distantly say, “T’Saan and Toral are now wed according to the Vulcan tradition. Live long and prosper, my children.” He raised his hand to bless them, spreading his fingers.

“Peace and long life,” said Sandor and Sansa, raising their hands in the salute before stepping towards each other and kissing heatedly, doing their best to ignore the quiet giggles of Sansa’s siblings.

* * *

Sandor thought the goodbyes took forever. He didn’t much like them, but it was interesting seeing these Vulcans emotional. Even Ned was tearing up, hugging the living daylights out of his precious daughter. Sansa’s sehlat sat at his feet, licking his Federation boots. He was surprised the boots didn’t dissolve because of her saliva, but Lady was a lady through and through.

Sansa accepted gifts from her family, little things like chairs and Vulcan art, and big things like her favorite plomeek soup and her old Vulcan toys for “future Starks.” Sandor quietly wished a future Clegane was on the way, but he wouldn’t rush Sansa.

Finally, his _wife_ was pulled away from her family after promising they’d try visiting more often and would call frequently and would do many more things to assure the Starks that they were not dying on the _Enterprise_. Sansa’s face was as red as it had ever been as she tried to conquer her fear of the transporter. She adjusted her blue uniform as Sandor tapped his comm and had them beamed up. One day of work and then the night would be all to themselves, Sandor thought as he kissed Sansa, and by how fast her complexion changed from red to green, she got the message.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is pretty short—it's been wack over here. I was on Stanford campus for the weekend, and let's just say some of my friends suck (others are p much family), got a ton of blisters, and the guy I definitely thought liked me...well, I think you got the idea. #highschoolyears 
> 
> And then the ACT! That's on Saturday so I'll be having a great time doing that. 
> 
> But I have to know, what are all your favorite musicians/books/movies/tv shows? I'm looking for stuff to fill my time when I have spare time!
> 
> Also, for those of you who have read Trade, I have not abandoned that! I'm still just trying to figure out what to do with the last chapter.


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